


The Artist & the Muse

by Violet_Jones



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Art School, M/M, Tattoo Artist Mickey Milkovich
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:40:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23540017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violet_Jones/pseuds/Violet_Jones
Summary: Ian comes in for a tattoo and Mickey can't place where he knows him from.Based on the trope mash-up prompt: Forgotten first meeting / Intimate artistry.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 123
Kudos: 582





	1. The Tattoos

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the awesome [grumblesandmumbles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumblesandmumbles/) for the prompt and inspiration!

The old-fashioned metal bell above the parlor door clanged just as Mickey was finishing up his afternoon appointment. The steady hum of the tattoo machine drowned out the mid-range volume of the “Songs That Don’t Suck” playlist he had on in the background.

Everyone else had gone to lunch, so Mickey called out, “Be with you in a minute,” without glancing up from his work.

“No problem,” a male voice returned.

The chest piece he was almost done shading was pretty simple; black ink only, curlicue font, spelling out the current love of this idiot’s life, he supposed. Odds were Mickey’d see him back here in a year or two tops for some kind of cover-up. Only dumbasses got significant others’ names inked. Everyone knew that.

About seven minutes more, and the tattoo was complete. The customer in question gave him an extended kind of bro dap, handshake combo, and counted out the cash he owed. Once handed over, he was on his way, leaving Mickey to come up behind the tall redhead perusing the wall art in the small lobby area.

“What up, man? See something you like?”

The guy turned to greet him, “Uh, yeah. It’s all really great.”

Mickey’s eyebrows shot up, as they were wont to do. “That’s some pretty broad taste you got, then. You here for a tribal tattoo that has nothing to do with your heritage, or some sea-faring imagery that also has no bearing on your life? No wait… you wanna represent your Irish side you don’t really know fuck all about by putting a Celtic knot in the middle of a four-leaf clover.”

The redhead snorted, crossing his arms. “I look like that much of a jackass to you?”

Mickey shrugged, looking him up and down. “Clothes are pretty generic, but I ain’t exactly a goddamn fashionista. You obviously work out. Historically, gym rats aren’t really known for their decorative tastes. But, they do like their tats, brah, mostly in those generic terms I mentioned earlier. Don’t see any visible ink, but you’re wearing long sleeves, so… not much to go on.”

Red nodded, an amused look still on his face. “I could show you the tattoos I already got, but you’d think even less of me than you do now.”

“Shit, really? Maybe you don’t wanna do that then. But on the other hand, you kinda have to. Curiosity ‘ll kill me otherwise.”

“Alright, maybe I will. But first you gotta promise it won’t affect your decision about doing my new piece.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Kinda, yeah. First thing’s first, though—you Mickey?”

“Who wants to know?”

“I’m Ian. A friend from work showed me a piece by an artist here called Mickey. That’s who I’m looking to do mine.”

“You look kinda familiar, actually. This a mutual friend?”

“So you are Mickey?”

“The one and only.”

“Cool. I don’t know if you’re friends with Adam, but you probably remember the work. It was a recreation of a Japanese fine art illustration from the 1800s.”

“The Kuniyoshi?”

“Yes! Impeccably done, man. I was super impressed.”

Huh. So this fool knew a little something about art.

“Thanks. That’s definitely up there as one of my best works. Not a lot of people are looking to get masterpiece replicas around these parts. Costs a pretty penny, though. That shit takes time. I have to put a lotta hours into the design beforehand, before I even get to the permanent skin part.”

“I understand,” said Ian. “I’ve thought about it a lot, and I know exactly what I want. I need someone like you with a fine art background to do it.”

“Okay, you got a boner for some contemporary street artist you saw on the cover of Juxtapoz, or what?”

Ian snickered. “Not exactly. I like all kinds of shit, but the painting I want done is Expressionist.”

“Holy fuck, not Van Gogh?”

“No. Munch, actually.”

“You serious? Fuckin’ Munch?”

“Dead serious.”

“You know there’s a lotta better modern artists to choose from, right? Even among the dipshit expressionists.”

“To be honest, I prefer Kandinsky, Dix, and Bacon, but I have other reasons for wanting this particular piece.”

“To be honest, I prefer the fuckin’ surrealists. They perfected the whole fucked in the head thing with much more interesting results. Just don’t tell me you want _The Scream_.”

Ian looked down and bit his lip.

“Holy shit, man, the fuckin’ _Scream_! Are you kiddin’ me?”

“Look, I said I had my fucking reasons, alright. Maybe it’s a little cliche, but maybe I myself am cliche. Do you always judge the shit outta your potential clients like this?”

“Not really, but most of my clients are goddamn morons. You seem better than that.”

“Oh yeah? All you’ve done so far is read me for filth.”

Mickey cackled. “Read you for—you been watchin’ too much _Drag Race_ , gingerbread.”

Ian’s eyebrow quirked in surprise. “Wouldn’t’ve pegged you for a fan, tough guy.”

“I’m full of surprises.”

“So will you do it?”

“What? Redo a simple-ass chalk drawing on your… where did you want it?”

“Was thinkin’ shoulder maybe?”

“Christ, and you’re not even sure where you want it. You’re a mess, you know that?”

“You really need to work on your customer service skills, dude.”

“Fine, I’ll do some sketches and give you a quote. Gonna be at least $500, man. Maybe more. I’ll need a $100 deposit to work on the design.”

Ian nodded. “Okay.”

“You want it to look like the original straight-up, or you want me to play with the style a bit?”

“Um… I guess if it’s not too much trouble, you could give me a couple options?”

Mickey nodded. “Yeah, fine. I like to be challenged. Even if it is for something I don’t particularly care for.”

“Cool.” Ian got his wallet out and counted out five 20s. Once exchanged and pocketed, Red stuck his hand out for the shaking.

Mickey took it. “You never showed me your other tattoos, like you promised.”

Ian grinned. “Maybe when I get to know you better.”

Mickey rolled his eyes. “Come by Tuesday and I’ll have some shit ready for you to look at. We can book then.”

Ian finally took his hand back. “Sounds like a plan. See ya, Mick.”

Mickey watched him exit with another clang of the bell, and felt more certain than ever that he’d seen him somewhere before, he just had no fucking idea where or when.

  


Two days later, Mickey arrived to work in the afternoon, having had nothing scheduled for the morning. He didn’t have to wonder if the only living Edvard Munch fanboy in Chicago was gonna drop in to check out his commissioned drawings, because there he was in all his glory, cozied up on the vinyl lobby bench with Mickey’s skank-ass sister, Mandy.

She was practically wrapped around the poor guy as they flipped through a catalogue binder, and when she giggled in a gratingly flirtatious manner, a frisson of jealousy shot through his entire body for some ungodly reason.

“I bet you’re like a model or something,” she remarked, not even looking up at the ringing of the shop bell like she was supposed to, since she was the fucking front desk person.

Ian huffed a laugh, demurring, “Nah, nothing like that. Used to do a little of it back in art school when I was strapped for cash, though. Posed for Figure Drawing, Sculpture, Anatomy, stuff like that.”

Mickey’s ears pricked up.

“Oh yeah? Like, as in, _naked_ modeling?”

“Sometimes. The naked stuff paid the best, since you had to chuck your inhibitions.”

“Mmm, along with your clothes,” said Mandy, daringly tracing a finger on Ian’s thigh.

He tittered in a flustered kind of way, and put some distance between them, just as Mickey cleared his throat and they both looked up.

“Real professional of you to canoodle with our clients in the window instead of greeting them from behind the fuckin’ desk where you’re supposed to be,” he groused.

Mandy’s seductive smile quickly morphed into her signature sneer. “I’m helping the _client_ pick out a design, dickbreath.”

“No you ain’t, bitch, I know this guy. Got his commission work right here in my hand.” He waved his sketchbook at her. “You wanna remove your ass from the waiting area and get back to your goddamn post?”

“Oh, yeah, cuz there’s so much shit for me to do behind the desk right now.” She flipped him off with both hands.

“Then go grab yourself some cleaning supplies and get to sterilizing like a good little shop bitch.”

“Fuck you!” she cried, getting up and stomping away all the same.

“Jeez,” Ian interjected looking very uncomfortable, “sorry, man. That your girlfriend or something?”

Mickey made a disgusted face and fake-wretched. “Fuck no, man, that’s my sister!”

Ian’s eyes widened as understanding dawned. “Ohhhh… okay… that makes a lot more sense. I was about to be kinda worried about the way you talk to her.”

“Please, you saw how she dishes it.”

Ian chuckled. “Believe me, I have enough siblings to know the drill.”

Mickey nodded. “Alright, you ready to check this shit out then?”

Ian nodded, and Mickey came to sit beside him, flipping through the middle of his sketchbook until he got to the right pages, then handed it over.

“Damn,” said Ian.

The first one was pretty much a straight-up replica of the painting, simple messy lines and all. It mimicked the pastel on cardboard origins well. The next pages had a couple of different versions that were slightly modernized, like Mickey had interpreted the work in his own style.

“Shit. That’s pretty cool too.” Ian looked up at him and met his eye. “You’re really talented, Mick.”

He felt the heat rise up from his chest, seeming to fill up his whole head, and he pawed at the back of his neck in discomfort. “Uh, thanks.”

“Well, now I don’t know which one to fucking pick.” Ian laughed. “Would any of them be easier for you?”

Mickey shrugged. “Not really. About the same for any of the three.”

“Cool. You mind if I think on it some more and let you know when I come in? The colors ‘ll be the same anyway, right?”

“Yeah, that’s fine. Probly gonna need two sessions. Few hours a piece. You got the stamina for that?”

Ian’s crooked smile was a little… dirty. “Oh yeah.”

Mickey laughed and took his sketchbook back, tearing out the pages with precision, and giving them to Ian.

“You sure I don’t know you from somewhere, man?” he asked the redhead one more time.

Ian shook his head. “I don’t think so. Depends where you’ve hung out, maybe? I’ve done shit all over this town. Maybe we used to run in similar circles.”

“You told Mandy something about art school?”

“Oh. Yeah. Well, I was only there a couple years. Didn’t get a degree. My sister was furious. Said I wasted too much money. It was a whole thing. But anyway… after being everything from a stripper to a janitor, I finally landed on paramedic.”

Mickey’s jaw dropped a little, and his nose twitched. “Stripper?”

Ian tittered. “Yep.”

“Alright then,” said Mickey with a gulp, completely forgetting his previous line of questioning. “So… let’s talk pricing…”

  


Mickey was very stoned, lying in bed in his studio apartment later that night, and much to his extreme annoyance, he couldn’t get Ian the ginger fine art stripper paramedic off his mind. It was the whole not being able to place where he knew him from thing, he was sure. Yeah, the guy was okay looking, and yes, he had a certain knack for verbal sparring which Mickey really appreciated. But that niggling in the back of his brain was the thing that kept gingerballs front and center.

He went over all the clues again… stripper, _ahem_ , art school, janitor, paramedic, model, stripper, art school, model… why didn’t Mickey ask him _where_ the fuck he went to art school. They looked like they could be about the same age. Maybe they’d had a class together? Such an obvious question to have asked. He tried to remember all his courses. Fuck. There were a lot. Like Ian had been mentioning to Mandy… life drawing, sculpting, painting, graphic—wait. Mickey jolted up on the bed. _Wait a fucking minute_.

He rolled himself off the mattress and ambled over to the bookcase where he kept his sketchbook collection. Mickey was kind of a neat freak when it came to his previous work. He never threw anything away. He had all that shit labeled by year, and he definitely remembered the drawing class he’d taken as a sophomore, because that was exactly where he figured out how to properly draw a human dick.

He paged through the first sketchbook from that semester, then the second, then the third, and finally… there in the middle was an image he now recalled quite well. It was most definitely a slightly younger version of Ian, in all his naked glory, posed for the gods on a beautifully lit velvet-draped pedestal. How could Mickey fucking forget? He’d been obsessed with that guy the entire week he’d spent lounging around with his dick out all for Mickey’s (and everyone else’s, whatever) drawing pleasure. Man, he’d definitely jerked it thinking about that pale, sculpted, freckled, redhead on more than one occasion. Mickey hadn’t exactly been a go-getter when it came to guys at the time. He’d been slowly coming to terms with the fact that he could be out, and that it didn’t have to be a big deal. It had always been too big a deal in his neighborhood, and all together impossible when his dad was around.

He flipped through the Ian pages, noting countless details. It wasn’t just the cock he’d been interested in drawing, younger Mickey had fixated on every square inch of the guy at one point or another. His back, his hands, his uneven chin, his hair, his freakishly tiny nipples, even his chicken legs. For a brief moment in time, Mickey was 100% all about Ian, but he’d never said a word to him. Wasn’t even sure if they ever made eye contact. No wonder Ian didn’t remember him.

So fucking weird.

  


It wasn’t until a week later that Ian was scheduled in, and the days went by incredibly slowly, in Mickey’s opinion. After discovering the origins of their first meeting (if it could even be called that), he found himself eager to be in the man’s presence again. Then, when it finally happened, he was so massively aware of his intense attraction that he wanted to kick his own ass. He was half-worried he’d screw up the job he was supposed to do, and that was not an option.

Their parlor set-up was very much open-air, like a barbershop, and it was times like these, few and far between, that Mickey wished they had private rooms, or at least stalls. Shit, he’d make do with those flimsy medical curtains. He could hear Mandy smacking her bubblegum over his shoulder, and he just knew she’d be eyeing Ian all over as soon as the shirt came off.

“Guess you finally get to see my youthful follies,” said Ian, unbuttoning his flannel.

Mickey snickered and licked his lips. “Oh yeah? You keepin’ your promise? Thought you said we had to get to know each other better first.”

“We have,” Ian replied, and there was a seriousness in his eyes that had Mickey believing him. “You’re about to give me the first good ink I’ve ever had. It’s only fair you get to see the previous shitshows.”

Mickey smiled wide. “Can’t wait. Show me what you got.”

Ian had a white tank top on under the discarded plaid, and while Mickey was busy trying not ogle newly exposed biceps, his attention was drawn directly to cut abs as Ian lifted the shirt, a tantalizing oblique line jutting out prominently down into the waistline of the unfortunately present jeans he was wearing. Maybe Mickey’s breath caught a little, until a welcome visual distraction came in the form of a generic army-clad eagle carrying a fucking rifle in its talons, soaring across the right side of Ian’s ribcage.

He couldn’t help the long snort that came out of his nose. “What the hell, Red? You left out the part in your history where you had a damn military boner.”

Ian shrugged. “My history is a lot longer and varied than I’ve let on.”

“Christ, fuckin’ mystery man, eh? You serve in Iraq or some shit before you got busy shakin’ your ass?”

“Nah, but it’s a long story. Involves being dishonorably discharged from training. This was after the art school drop out.”

The unknowing mention of their shared connection threw Mickey for a second, and he felt odd being the only one privy to the information he now had. But was it really wise for him to stop everything and say, ‘Oh, by the way, I’ve seen your dick many times, and I still have drawings of it at my house?’ Probably not.

“Fuck, alright. And you still have another one of these bad boys to show me?”

“Uh huh, and it’s much, much worse than this one.”

Mickey shot him an incredulous look. “How much worse we talkin’?”

“As bad as you can get, really. And in context, it’s like quadruple worse.”

“Fuckin’ hell. Okay. Do it to me, then.”

Ian smiled slyly, then turned around. He didn’t have to move his tank to the side this time. Mickey could see the tattoo on his right shoulder blade plain as day… a big-ass pair of disembodied cartoon tits.

Mickey’s mouth fell open like a fish, but no sound came out. He was left speechless.

Ian glanced back at him. “Told you.”

“Uhhh… yeah. I don’t even know what to say right now.”

“Nothing much _to_ say.”

“Were you extremely strung out on strong drugs when you asked for this?”

“No. I didn’t ask for this. At all. It was a misunderstanding borne from grief. Not only do I have no interest in tits, but I was trying to get an homage to my recently deceased mother, and somehow didn’t think to be specific about who I was, and how she was related to me. It’s… still a long story, but now you can see why it’s bad many, many times over.”

“Christ. You really know how to get yourself into shit, don’t you?”

“It’s a gift I never wanted or asked for, much like this living reminder.”

Mickey laughed again. “Man. You really do need a good piece on your body. You sure you don’t want me to do a coverup on that? You weren’t exactly married to the arm idea. Could probly make it work with the design.”

“Nah,” said Ian. “I’m set on the arm now. Eventually I will get the tits covered. For now, they strangely remind me of her, just cuz of the ludicrous story, you know? When I’m ready to have it re-done, I want it to be an actual tribute to her.”

Mickey nodded. “I understand, man. So… show me which one you decided on.”

Ian handed the sketchbook pages back to him, pointing to the second one Mickey had drawn. It was halfway between the copy of the original and the most Mickey-freestyle third option. It was his favorite of the three as well.

“Sweet, well, I guess you know the drill. Which side you wanna do?”

Ian grabbed his left shoulder. “This one.”

“Let’s do it.”

Ian was a good sport, not doing much more than grimacing and holding his breath intermittently to show his pain. Mickey was grateful, as he didn’t have to take many breaks. He couldn’t lie and say he wasn’t a little turned on by the curves of strong muscle that made up his canvas, but it didn’t fuck with his professional demeanor either.

Within a couple hours, the outline was done, and he was beginning to shade in the main figure at the front. The screamer. They’d leave the other coloring for the second session over the weekend.

Once the skin was soothed and covered, Ian put his shirt back on, and Mickey sent him over to Mandy, who predictably continued her slutty quest to get into Red’s pants. The thing was, Mickey was suspecting more and more that he did in fact bat for the home team. There were definite hints, but not necessarily any comments explicitly expressing a homo agenda.

Ian smiled brightly at the siblings as he left with a little wave, and they both found themselves stupidly waving back like spellbound morons.

“You know he’s not interested in your nasty twat, right?” said Mickey, full of tact.

Mandy shot him an A+ death glare. “Didn’t see him interested in your sloppy bottom ass, either though.”

Mickey pursed his lips and chuckled sarcastically. “He was practically shrinkin’ away from you the other day on the bench, probly cuz you were makin’ his dick retract up inside of his body. He told me earlier that he’s not into tits.”

“So? That could just mean he’s an ass man.”

Mickey raised his eyebrows triumphantly.

“Like _girl’s_ asses, dickwad,” Mandy amended. “Maybe he likes small tits, which would be good for me.”

Mickey rolled his eyes. “Trust me. You’re barkin’ up the wrong gay tree.”

“Whatever, just because you wanna bang him, doesn’t mean he’s gay, and he probly has better taste than your brand of grimy, shit-for-brains, anti-charm even if he is.”

  


As the days passed, Mickey found himself still foolishly pining for Ian. It weighed on him that he hadn’t mentioned their shared connection. It felt wrong… like he was being a skeevy perv or something. And maybe he was, because he’d kept the Ian-featured sketchbook out and looked over it again, letting his imagination run wild. He even found his brain going off on these ridiculously girly, fanciful tangents about how meeting Ian again years after his big crush was like fate. Then he got high and watched a horror movie just to cleanse his mind-palette, because that was the dumbest shit he’d ever thought. But then after the movie was over, he found himself sketching in his current book, and lo and behold, all the lines converged into some form of the redhead he couldn’t shake. It was like Ian was a song stuck on the record player spinning inside of him.

How was he gonna get over this?

Ian was slightly more talkative during the second session, and Mickey inadvertently got him chatting about art again.

“So, you finally gonna tell me why _The Scream_?” he asked. “Considering this dude isn’t even one of your favorite artists, I still don’t get it.”

Ian sighed. “It’s not really like that long of a story or anything. Art History was one of the classes I took before I dropped out, and even though his style wasn’t my favorite, I really connected to a few of his pieces. A couple years later, I was diagnosed bipolar, after the whole army debacle. And I remembered from a paper I wrote that Munch was too. So, I got this poster of _The Scream_ and put it on my wall across from my bed, and I would stare it all the fucking time while I was low. And after a while, it was like it was portraying exactly how I felt inside. So it became a kind of symbol, I guess. And I’m doing really well now, but I feel like it’s still a part of me, so… that’s why.”

Mickey didn’t answer immediately. He really hadn’t been expecting something that deep. “Damn, man. I’m sorry for giving you so much shit about it. I shouldn’t have. I don’t know when to keep my mouth shut most of the time.”

“It’s okay, I wasn’t offended. I get it. It’s one of the most famous paintings in the world, and it’s not your style.”

“So you’re just okay with me being a selfish prick, then?”

“Everybody’s selfish at the end of the day.”

Mickey took the needle away and turned off the machine for a break.

“Look, there’s actually somethin’ I’ve been meanin’ to tell you. It’s a little weird, and it just makes me feel strange knowin’ it, when you don’t.”

Ian looked perplexed. “Okay?”

“Remember how I said I thought I knew you from somewhere?”

“Yeah?”

“I finally remembered. Turns out we went to the same art school at the same time.”

Ian let out a whoosh of air, and sniggered. “Is that it? How is that weird?”

“You were a model for one of my drawing classes.”

“Oh?” Ian asked, then it clicked, “Ohhh.”

“Yeah, so…”

“So you saw my dick?”

“Yep.”

“And you drew it?”

“Repeatedly, yeah.”

Ian laughed. “Fuck, that is kinda weird.”

Mickey laughed too, and decided to maybe go for it a little. “Even weirder… I have multiple sketches of you and your dick in my apartment, right now.”

Ian kind of gasp-chortled. “You saved them all this time? I don’t know if that’s sweet, or creepy.”

“Don’t flatter yourself too much, asshole, I save all my sketchbooks. When I started putting two and two together, I went back and looked through the relevant year, and sure enough… there you were. I wanted to mention it before, but it felt…”

“Weird?”

“Right.”

“Huh. That’s so fucking random. What are the odds?”

“I don’t know. Small world, I guess.”

“Are they any good?” asked Ian.

“What?” Mickey replied.

“The sketches. Did you capture my likeness accurately?”

“I think so. I mean, I don’t have all the evidence in front of me, but I was already pretty good at that point. Maybe you’ve changed since then, who knows?”

Ian hummed inscrutably, and on that note, they got back to the session.

Mickey was glad he finally let it out, and although still a bit unnerved, his interaction with Ian felt easier from there on out. He focused on the colorful shading, and their conversation became less personal.

When it came time to unveil the final piece to Ian, Mickey felt more nervous than he usually did when he finished a custom piece. Luckily, Ian’s big smile gave away his satisfaction.

“I love it. Looks exactly like your drawing. The colors came out fucking perfect, damn!”

Mikey smiled back. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, for sure. It’s better than I pictured it originally. You’re awesome!”

God, Mickey’s face was heating up. He hoped his dumbass babyface cheeks weren’t turning bright red on him.

“I’m glad you like it. Give it a couple weeks, then come by and see me so we can check if it needs any touch-ups, on me. Wanna see how it heals first.”

“Mmm… that won’t do,” said Ian with a shake of his head.

“Huh?” Mickey was taken aback.

“Two weeks’ time? Won’t do. I’m thinking sooner. Maybe you could invite me over to your place? I’m gonna need to inspect those drawings you still have of my dick. You know, like a quality check.”

Mickey couldn’t contain his grin, as he snapped off his gloves. “Quality check, eh?”

“Mmhmm, it’s very important. I could even bring you, like, dinner or something.”

“Dinner and dick drawings? Sounds like a decent night to me.”

Ian nodded, a gleam in his eye. “It has potential.”

“Guess that means you’ll need my address. Let me get a pen.”

Mickey swaggered his way over to the front desk and very deliberately jotted his home info down on a post-it right under Mandy’s nose.

Very quietly, so no one else could hear, he taunted, “Suck it, bitch,” and flipped her off, before turning back around and delivering it to Ian.

“When are you free?” asked Mickey.

“I work days this week, so any night after 7 or so.”

“Sweet. How ‘bout tomorrow?”

Ian grinned knowingly. “Sounds perfect.”

“Anything else I can help you with, sir?” Mickey bit his lip.

“I’m sure we’ll come up with something,” said Ian. “Lemme sleep on it.”

And then he had the audacity to wink at Mickey as if he were the leading man in some old-fashioned rom-com, and Mickey had the gall to blush and bat at Ian’s chest like he was the young ingenue that couldn’t help but be swept off her feet. It was pretty gross.

“Get the fuck outta here, Munch boy.”

It was a good day.

  


  



	2. The Sketches

Ian managed to get through a long day on the rig despite the throb and itchiness of the healing tat on his left shoulder. The extra bitch of it was that the pain and nuisance just reminded him of his new crush; Mickey Milkovich, inker of fine art tattoos, drawer of Ian’s dick, apparently. He chuckled a little every time he remembered that little doozy. Ian had found him strangely adorable from the get-go, even though he’d been abrasive and combative when first approached.

Ian had always been a sucker for tough guys who spoke plainly. A true product of where he came from. Mickey seemed to fit that bill to a T. He was also cute, funny, and talented, with an obvious inclination toward Ian, even though he hadn’t made the first move. The fact that once asked, he’d wanted Ian to come over the very next day might’ve been off-putting to a dude who liked to play things by some cool set of rules, but Ian found the eagerness refreshing. It wasn’t like Mickey gave off desperate vibes, he was just straight to the point, a characteristic that Ian shared.

There were a few hours before he had to head out for their date. He liked to give himself a proper buffer between work and socializing, whenever he actually decided to do it. He didn’t enjoy going out half as much as he used to, so he had to have a good reason. An evening _in_ at a guy’s house sounded way better than an evening _out_ at this point in his life.

He still lived at the house he’d grown up in with his siblings. He didn’t plan on like dying there or anything, but he enjoyed the company of his family and didn’t particularly feel the need to leave until he found someone worth leaving _for_. He couldn’t see himself living alone, and hadn’t ever made any friends he considered close enough to become roommates with. So as much as it sometimes drove him crazy, the lack of privacy was a fair trade for the comfort of belonging.

He spent an hour decompressing in his room before he ventured downstairs to hang out with his youngest brother, Liam, for a bit. After checking the 4th grader’s homework and battling him in a couple rounds of his latest video game obsession, Ian got in the shower and dressed in his civilian clothes. It was weird how being forced into a uniform all day long made getting out of it feel so liberating.

He looked up Mickey’s address on Google Maps before he figured out what food to pick up. It wasn’t that far if he took the bus, and he knew a good pizza shop near Mickey’s stop. He ordered a large half-veggie/half-pepperoni and took leave.

  


By 7:15, he was knocking on Mickey’s 5th floor door, marinara wafting up his nostrils in a mouthwatering way.

He smiled widely when Mickey appeared in the doorway, his hair slicked back more neatly than it had been at the shop, his outfit casual, and his feet bare. Ian found that detail charming, even if it was completely normal for people not to wear shoes around their own home.

“Hey,” said Mickey with a small smile of his own.

“Hey,” Ian replied. “Since I obviously have no idea what kind of food you like, I figured no one is ridiculous enough to refuse pizza.”

He shook the box a little and Mickey waved him in.

“I’m always down for pizza,” Mickey answered, leading the way to his couch after closing the door behind them. “But just so you know, I’m not picky at all. I’ll put almost anything in my mouth.”

He turned to give Ian a suggestive smirk and a waggle of his eyebrows.

Ian huffed a laugh as he sat down, setting the pizza on the coffee table. “Good to know. I didn’t wanna fuck it up, so I got half-pep/half-veg.”

Mickey flipped the pizza box open with a scoff. “I look like I don’t eat meat to you?”

“Okay, okay. Enough innuendo, tough guy.”

“Wasn’t even innuendo, I’m just a carnivore,” said Mickey, watching as Ian bit into a slice teeming with onion, pepper, olive, mushroom, and tomato. “You a pansy-ass vegetarian?”

Ian tittered as he slurped up the stringy cheese. “No, but I do enjoy a good vegetable. Omnivore, don’t worry. Still got the barbarian in me, or whatever measure of manliness meat-eating is supposed to be.”

“Look, it’s not that I would think any less of you, I just wouldn’t trust you.”

Ian laughed again. “Wow. That’s the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard. Very old-school weird machismo of you.” Ian picked up a slice of pepperoni with his other hand and took a big bite, talking through his chewing. “See? Ian eat meat. Meat good.”

Mickey stared at him with twisted lips for a minute before giving into a mild snicker. “Alright, wise guy. Get your mitts off my half, though. You can enjoy the garden variety by yourself.”

After their initial slices had been devoured, Mickey offered Ian a beer and got up to retrieve them. “I like Mexican beers. You want a lime with yours?”

“Uh… sure?”

Mickey snorted. “They taste better that way, I promise. Still as easy to drink as watery plain American cheapies, but higher alcohol content and actual flavor.”

“Sounds good,” said Ian. “How do you know so much about Mexican beer?”

“Long-ass story, but it’s basically the only other place I’ve ever been outside the Tri-State area.”

“That’s awesome. I’ve never been outside the country. It’d be nice to at least drive up to Canada or something. Maybe sail across Lake Michigan.”

“Aiming for the moon, eh, Red?” Mickey jested, handing him his beer can with a lime wedge sticking out of the top.

“Hey, I used to dream bigger than I really should’ve. Now I’m more of a realist.”

Mickey shrugged. “I guess that’s good in theory, but also kinda sad.”

Ian watched Mickey squeeze his lime into the mouth of the can, then shove it in, before taking a swallow, so he copied the actions. How had he never put a piece of fruit in a beer before? He supposed he never bothered getting fancy with them. Back when he was a heavier drinker, he preferred chugging liquor straight from the bottle, or mixing candy-flavored cocktails at the bar. Beer was always just PBR, or Old Style, or some Natty Lite type shit. The cheapest thing you could get a case of at the grocery store, or the easiest thing to lift off the back of a truck.

The tang of the lime was an interesting note to what otherwise tasted like regular beer. “Okay. I guess your fruity bullshit is alright,” he said, setting the can down and picking up another slice of pizza.

“I don’t usually get fruity, but when I do…”

“Yeah?” Ian prodded.

“I don’t know. Didn’t know where to go with that one.”

Ian laughed and bumped shoulders with him. “Fuckin’ dork.”

Then he hissed as his tattoo smarted, and Mickey made fun of him thoroughly.

Their casual conversation continued as they ate and drank, the TV a low hum in the background that was mostly just a visual distraction they didn’t have to pay any real attention to.

Ian was struck by how comfortable he already felt around Mickey. Even though they were in that preliminary icebreaking stage, it felt almost like they already knew each other. That whole thing about having crossed paths years back without actually connecting notwithstanding, it was an uncanny vibe that Ian wasn’t used to. He was usually somewhat awkward with the new people who entered his life.

Mickey, though, seemed a tad uncertain about Ian. Not enough to disturb the feeling of comfort, but enough to make Ian’s doubts seep in.

“What’s wrong?” he finally asked.

“Huh?” said Mickey, his brow furrowed in a genuinely perplexed way.

“Not to put you on the spot or whatever, but you just seem… a little on edge?”

Mickey exhaled audibly and shook his head. “Nah, I’m good. I just… I don’t usually do this whole… ‘getting to know you’ shtick or whatever. I usually just bang.”

Ian gasped in feigned indignation, clasping at his chest. “That’s mighty presumptuous of you, sir.”

Despite the obvious joking tone, Mickey’s demeanor turned abashed and he began backpedaling. “I didn’t mean… I wasn’t sayin’… I don’t expect anything!”

Ian stared at him seriously for as long as he was able before cracking up. “Dude, it’s fine, I’m just fucking with you.”

Mickey punched him on the thigh. “Dickhead.”

“I think it’s pretty obvious that we mutually asked each other out, and I doubt that either of us are delicate flowers.”

“Well, don’t leave me hangin’ out there on a fuckin’ limb, though.”

“So, this conversational intimacy is freaking you out?”

Mickey rolled his eyes. “Not freaked out, just sayin’ I don’t normally do this like ‘date’ shit. Out of my element.”

“I think you’re doing just fine. If it makes you feel any better, I don’t usually get along with people right off the bat like this. Especially guys who wanna bang.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” said Mickey, swigging his beer.

“Swear to god!” assured Ian. “Look, why don’t we forget about any expectations for now and just see what happens? It’s been a long time since I’ve done that.”

“Layin’ the groundwork for an easy escape, eh?”

Ian blinked slowly. “No, Mickey. I’m not trying to go anywhere. I’m right where I wanna be.”

Mickey nodded, still looking slightly incredulous as he sipped more beer.

They stared at the flickering television screen in a silence that stretched on a little too long for Ian’s taste.

“So…” he prodded, “you gonna break out the famous artwork I came over to see or what?”

“Oh, so after that awkward moment, you wanna see the fawning dick drawings I sketched of you a million years ago?”

Ian shrugged. “Definitely. Why not get weirder?” He smirked.

Mickey grinned in a toothy way that made him look younger and sweeter, rubbing a hand across his face with a sigh. “Fine, whatever.”

Ian watched him walk around the decently sized, eclectically decorated, studio apartment and pull a black sketchbook from a shelf, clearly set apart from the ordered rows the rest were nestled in. Mickey handed it over without opening it.

“They’re somewhere in the middle. Go buck-wild.”

Ian smiled, glancing down at the faux leather cover labeled with a strip of masking tape displaying a date range six years prior in neat Sharpie block writing. He eagerly flipped the book open, paging through and noting Mickey’s other former subjects, including models, inanimate objects, and landscapes alike. Most were in grayscale, but some were in color. It’d been ages since Ian had taken in student work like this. He didn’t exactly pal around with artist types anymore. Most of his friends were very working class, meat and potato types with mundane interests. It was activating Ian’s nostalgia receptors.

By the time he reached the images of himself, Ian felt utterly exhilarated, and gazing at Mickey’s affectionate interpretations of his younger self gave him silly little butterflies in his stomach.

“Wow, Mick. These are really nice. I’m impressed.”

Mickey pawed at the back of his neck, mumbling a quiet, “Thanks.”

Ian flipped the page, noting the only use of color was for his bright orange hair, and a smattering of added peachy blush to highlight various body parts. It wasn’t even so embarrassing when he finally got to the dick renderings. It was pretty amusing that there were so many of them, and Ian wondered how long Mickey had known he was gay when he’d drawn them. If he’d already come to the realization.

It had been a decidedly promiscuous time for Ian those years before, during, and after his art school days. He’d been sexualized by older men at a fairly young age, and when the bipolar condition had started manifesting, an element of hyper-sexuality pervaded his social life for a long while before he realized he needed to get it under control. He was frankly lucky he’d never caught any menacing STIs. He tended to be half out of his mind on various intoxicants whenever he acted on his urges, and even when he wasn’t, his upbringing had ingrained a certain carelessness in him when it came to using protection.

Maybe Mickey only had fantasies back then. And maybe Ian helped fuel some of those for a time.

“Why didn’t I ever notice you?” Ian finally asked, looking up from the sketches and gazing very pointedly into Mickey’s clear blue eyes.

Mickey sniggered. “I don’t know, man. Wasn’t really making much of an impression on dudes in the early years of my fagdom.”

Ian guffawed. “Maybe it wasn’t the impression you wanted, but I’m sure there _was_ one. You’re not exactly a wilting wallflower.”

“Yeah, well, let’s just say I had some issues I was still workin’ through.”

Ian glanced back down at the drawings, paging back and forth. “It’s just weird that you saw me like this… so much of me, and I never saw you. Did we even make eye contact? Wouldn’t I notice a dude staring at me this fucking hard?”

“You were just doin’ a job, right? Did you usually make eye contact with all the people drawing your naked ass while you posed?”

Ian shook his head. “No, I guess I not. I'd pretty much zone out and try not to think about the audience.”

“Then I guess it makes sense that you never singled me out. I was just doin’ my assignments, and you were just tryin’ to make a buck.”

“Mm,” Ian hummed. “It’s still strange. I mean… I wish I’d noticed back then.”

He smiled and met Mickey’s gaze again. “Yeah, well… me too, obviously. I was more of a pussy than I cared to admit to myself. Shoulda just tracked you down after class or somethin’.”

Ian’s grin widened. “Good thing we got another chance then.” His focus went back to the sketches and his thoughts about life back then. The fucking crazy days. “I look a lot different now, I think,” he continued. “Took me forever to hit puberty, so I was still developing into my early 20s.”

“You sayin’ you’ve gotten manlier?” Mickey asked with a note of intrigue.

Ian smirked. “Maybe.”

“But I’m not supposed to ask you to prove it, because that would be presumptuous.”

Ian laughed. “Probably.”

“You know, I haven’t done any life drawing with a live model in many a year.”

“Really? You mean you don’t sit in the park and draw the little children running around, and the old ladies gossiping on benches?”

“Not really my scene, man.”

“I haven’t exactly struck a pose recently either.”

“So we could both use with exercising some stiff muscles then.” Mickey arched one eyebrow high, and Ian was really starting to like that look.

“You know, if this is a ruse, you don’t actually have to trick me. I was just fucking with you earlier. Mostly.”

“What if I really wanna draw you, though? Remember it bein’ a pretty good time for me back in the day.”

“I’m sure it was,” replied Ian, running a hand faux coquettishly down his body.

Mickey chuckled through another eye-roll. “Yeah, yeah, well, yours was one of the first dicks I ever drew. You should be flattered.”

“That’s a pretty weird honor to have, but I guess I’ll take it.”

They stared at each other daringly, a challenge in Mickey’s eyes that Ian’s brazen ass would definitely be taking, because he never backed down from a dude trying to test him, in any manner of the word.

A defiant smile on his face, Ian shot to his feet and started stripping, throwing off his sweater first, then pulling his shirt over his head. Mickey’s mouth fell open as his eyes wandered over Ian’s newly exposed torso, giving the redhead more confidence as he yanked off one shoe.

“Where exactly do you want me, Mr. Artiste?” he inquired, continuing to shed his clothes.

“Um,” Mickey cleared his throat forcefully, glancing around the entire studio a few times over, then pointing to a corner. “The bed, I guess.”

His eyes were pulled to Ian’s freckled hands as he began undoing his pants, but he seemed to cotton on to what he was supposed to be doing to follow through with the proposed modeling session, and looked away again, rising to rearrange the pillows and bedding, gathering lamps to cast toward the spot he wanted Ian to lie on, and collecting his instruments and materials from the drafting table in a different corner.

Once the underwear came off, Ian sauntered over to the bed, which was neither a mattress resting directly on the floor, nor a properly framed set-up lifted on a boxspring. There was a stripped wood platform that kept it low to the ground, but didn’t scream immature bachelor pad. The mattress was comfortable enough when Ian flipped onto his back and nestled into the pillows stacked a few cushions deep.

Mickey seemed startled to spot him already nude and waiting, and he visibly gulped as he took him in from where he stood dumbly holding a pad of paper and a few pencils aloft.

Ian couldn’t resist teasing him. “Bigger than you remember?”

That brought Mickey out of his stupor. “Fuck off. I’m perfectly professional.”

“Mhmm,” drawled Ian, “well, get your professional ass over here and adjust whatever you need to so we can get this show on the road. No touching the goods, though. A respectable artist merely directs, right?”

Mickey sat his materials on the bedside table and flipped Ian off, shuffling over to the lamps he’d arranged and adjusting the tilt of the shades and the aim of the lightbulb beams. He began surveying Ian with a critical eye as he made these decisions, and Ian felt himself relaxing into a long-forgotten role.

Mickey pulled a stuffed chair away from the living area, situating it a couple feet from the side of the bed, and studied Ian from a perched position there.

“Turn your hips away just a bit, and do something more interesting with your arms, please,” he ordered.

Ian’s lips quirked. “You want me to do the Rose pose from _Titanic_?”

Mickey’s face screwed up in disgust. “Fuck no! Unless you got a giant diamond shoved up your ass you haven’t told me about.”

That made Ian laugh, and he tried to find a comfortable kind of prone position to contort his body from so as to display an aesthetic advantage. “Look, just come over here and situate the pillows, and Gumby me around however you want.”

Mickey snorted. “Gumby you?”

“You know… bend me like clay or whatever.”

Mickey’s giggle extended. “You’re such a weirdo.”

The tension seemed to lessen considerably from there, and Mickey adjusted the cushions around Ian’s body so that they propped him up towards where he’d be seated, eyes darting up nervously to meet Ian’s whenever he had to prod a thigh, pick up an arm, or press on a pec. Soon enough, he seemed to be satisfied with the pose.

“That okay for you?” he asked.

“Yeah,” replied Ian. “I’m good.”

Mickey took his seat and did that artist thing where their gaze seemed to penetrate straight through their subject, as if seeing more than what was physically there. It made Ian blush momentarily before he pushed the feeling down and got used to it. He let himself drift away on a kind of meditational wave where every inch of him wasn’t exposed to the object of his desire to be scrutinized for precise reproduction. It mostly worked, and he didn’t dare look over into Mickey’s eyes, lest he lose all his cool.

Entirely against his will, at some indeterminable point in time, Ian realized that he was getting hard, his dick being a typically traitorous bastard. His gaze did creep toward Mickey’s then and he tried to school his expression so as not to disturb the overall pose.

“Sorry,” he uttered under his breath, rolling his eyes. “It’ll go away if I don’t touch it.”

Mickey laughed, but didn’t look particularly put off. “Never got to sketch it in such a… _tantalizing_ state before.”

He flipped the page and stared directly at Ian’s swollen cock, which didn’t help at all; only made Ian harder, in fact.

“Fuck, Mickey.” He took a deep breath through his nose and closed his eyes for a few seconds.

“Maybe later,” the artist replied, a tone of total amusement in his voice. “Stay just like that, actually.”

Ian figured keeping his eyes closed was less mortifying, so he obeyed, willing his mind to go someplace gross, or at least blank like it’d been before. It just wasn’t happening though. He was suddenly infused with all these erotic sentiments. After all, hadn’t their intentions always been moving toward the eventual consummation of their flirty attraction? No one really thought they were trying to become platonic besties or something. Ian’s dick knew exactly what it was waiting for and it would not be put off much longer.

After anywhere between five and ten minutes, he guessed, his hard-on finally dissipated from lack of stimulation, and Ian’s eyes snapped open when he heard a soft, comedic, “Booooooo,” from Mickey.

He couldn’t help but chuckle. “Shut up, you asshole.”

“Gotta say, this impromptu session is inspiring a lot of things in me.”

Ian raised a middle finger. “I feel like I’ve been lying here for a small eternity.”

Mickey grabbed his phone and swiped it to life. “Been a little over an hour.”

“Alright. Seems like a good chunk of time to me. You ready to wrap up?”

“Oh, I’m ready to wrap something up alright.”

“Okay,” Ian said in a chastising tone, sitting up and rolling his shoulders around. “Time’s up, Michelangelo.”

Mickey’s smile stayed locked on the page as he finished shading in some detail, while Ian continued working out the muscle kinks from staying in one position for so long. His modesty obliterated by the earlier dick debacle, he didn’t bother covering himself as he stretched and yawned.

“Can I get some water?” he asked noticing Mickey’s renewed attention on his flexing body.

“Yeah, sure.”

He watched Mickey retreat to the kitchen area and wondered if the time was nigh for sexy hijinks. He doubted either of them would show restraint as the night wore on. There wasn’t really a reason to. All he could hope was that Mickey wouldn’t get weird after they fucked and try to push Ian away. Even though the artist wasn’t the relationship type, Ian hoped their chemistry was enough to earn himself a shot at something beyond a fuck.

Mickey handed him a cold glass of water, which Ian swallowed halfway down in one go, cracking another beer for himself.

“So, do I get to see the fresh drawings or what?” asked Ian, setting his water on the nightstand.

He waited for Mickey to hand him his sketchpad, studying his ass as he bent over the chair. “Here ya go, Narcissus.”

Ian pursed his lips and yanked the pad into his lap. He flipped back to the first page, skimming through a whole study of his face, full body, and various featured body parts, very similar to the series from six years ago. He definitely looked more grown-up, filled out, and fully formed, like a proper adult who’d settled into himself. Maybe he didn’t retain as much of a youthful glow, but on the whole, the added age suited him.

He got a little lost in his thoughts as he perused the fine lines. Mickey’s technique had obviously improved over time as well, whether this style of sketching was out of practice or not. His art had reached higher levels as he aged. The drawing of Ian’s dick at full mast actually looked delicate, and although the element of eroticism was there, it didn’t come across as obscene. It was quite beautiful.

“Well?” prompted Mickey. “Cat got your tongue?”

Ian finally noticed that Mickey was right there, perched on the edge of the bed next to him, his face closer than Ian’s peripheral vision had managed to calculate.

“No, my mind was just wandering off. I love them.”

His eyes roamed over Mickey’s visage and he wondered how he could possibly be anymore obvious. He’d reached the zenith of his infatuation faster than a schoolboy who’d just been gifted a Valentine from the cutest kid in class. There was something about the way that Mickey saw him that really got under Ian’s skin. It didn’t make him feel like some potential one-and-done lay being objectified. He didn’t have the words to describe it just yet, but it felt significant.

Rather than continue spouting off with some sophomoric art critique, Ian decided to just give in to his desire right then and there. He leaned forward as he pulled Mickey nearer by the nape of the neck, relishing the soft press of their lips as they met in a languorous first kiss.

Their mouths moved as one, mutually deepening their connection in an ebb and flow of twisting tongues. Ian hummed, pulling Mickey’s body down on top of him as he fell back into the pillows. Their teeth clacked together and they laughed, pulling apart so that Mickey could safely deposit his sketchpad next to the bed.

“You’re a lot easier than you let on, firecrotch,” teased Mickey, turning back with a sweeping look down Ian’s bare body.

“Shut up and put your hands on me, you idiot,” Ian ordered, grabbing the front of Mickey’s collar and pulling him back down so their lips slotted together.

They rolled around in the sheets, the rough feel of Mickey’s fully clothed body rubbing against Ian’s sensitive skin in a way that made him unbelievably hot. His erection quickly returned with a vengeance, and there was something so dirty about still being the only one in any way exposed. He usually liked to be the one in control, but right now he just wanted to feel Mickey all around him, covering him and pressing him down into the mattress as they kissed and kissed.

He was almost caught off guard when he felt Mickey’s hand finally wrap around his cock, jerking its silky flesh with practiced ease as Ian gasped into his open mouth. Part of him just wanted to lie there and let Mickey do whatever he wanted to him, which was so at odds with his total top nature. It was like this guy was reducing him to a soft puddle of receptive need, antithetical to his performative, giving nature.

Mickey’s hand sped up as it slicked with the pre-cum oozing from Ian’s tip, eliciting a moan and a huff of laughter.

“What?” murmured Mickey, not letting up.

“I’m just…” Ian panted, rubbing his hand up and down Mickey’s active arm. “I’m not…”

Mickey tittered, licking at Ian’s lips with the tip of his tongue. “You’re…?”

“I’m a top!” Ian asserted, and while it made some sort of sense in his mind, he could see where it might be confusing for Mickey, since he wasn’t exactly trying to stick things up his ass or anything.

Mickey’s grip slackened for a moment as he huffed a surprised cackle in Ian’s face, knocking their foreheads together. “Well, I guess that bodes well for us, cuz you don’t have to worry on that score.”

“Oh, fuck,” Ian groaned, taking a strong hold of Mickey and flipping them over at long last. “Okay, these clothes have gotta go now.”

Mickey watched him with increasing delight as Ian undressed him like he couldn’t work his own limbs, the softness transformed into pure determination to get to familiar territory. He had a feeling that Mickey wasn’t usually such a rag doll, but was turned on by the way he let Ian have his way anyhow. He wore that same daring expression he’d had earlier when he was coaxing Ian into dropping trou and sitting for a new portrait, and Ian met the challenge again by tearing away every last piece of clothing in his way, exposing every tattoo he hadn’t yet been privy to, and swallowing Mickey down with zealous enthusiasm.

Whatever it took, he’d make sure to reduce Mickey to a writhing mass of pleasure that couldn’t even recall being a human being with a name.

  


Mickey dozed off after round two and Ian took a bathroom break, taking time to wipe himself clean of the surface layer of sweat and semen clinging to his skin. He studied Mickey’s face and body as he crawled back onto the mattress, wishing that he had half the talent for life drawing that Mickey did so that he could return the favor and capture his likeness. Ian was more of an abstract guy who painted his emotions when forced to work with physical mediums. Otherwise he primarily focused on digital work, like photo manipulation and graphic design.

Taking advantage of the lighting they’d never bothered to turn off, Ian grabbed his phone and snapped a few pictures, wondering if this thing between him and Mickey was destined to become something or not. He really hoped that it would.

He turned off most of the lamps, leaving the single one on the nightstand on and readjusting the shade. He took another short flurry of photos, and of course that was when Mickey opened his eyes, catching Ian red-handed.

“The hell you doin’?” Mickey queried groggily, rubbing the sleep away.

Ian grimaced as he clicked the phone off. “I promise that wasn’t like a creepy creeper thing. I just wanted to even the score, but I was never good at sketching real subjects. You’d end up looking like either a blurry mess or a crappy cartoon.”

“You a photographer then?”

Ian snorted, tossing his phone to the side and lying down on his side next to Mickey. “Hardly. I don’t do much art anymore. Ever really. It really grinds my sister’s gears on account of what she considers wasted time and money at art school.”

“Is she a hard-ass bitch or somethin’?”

“No, she’s really not. She’s the only one who ever cared about us like a parent should. Had to act like a mom when she’s not much older than me or Lip, and then all the other kids Monica popped out got dropped in her lap too. She just wants the best for us, really. Gets disappointed when we let her down. It’s all out of love.”

“At least you had someone to be there when your parents were shit. I wasn’t that lucky.”

“Yeah. We were definitely lucky to have each other. Only reason I’m glad Frank and Monica had so many kids. Wouldn’t feel right if there were even one less of us.”

“Why’d you stop makin’ art?”

Ian shrugged. “I kept hopping from one thing to another kinda aimlessly when I was younger. Stopped things as much as I started them. Once I got out of the habit of creating, I just kinda forgot about it. Maybe I never had enough passion for it, I don’t know. Maybe I just suck at completing projects, so I don’t bother to start them. Whatever it is, I’m a mess.”

“What’s the best piece you ever made?”

“Fuck, I don’t know when the last time I looked at my work was. I used my family a lot, but when I was down, I did a lot of dark abstract shit. My brother, Lip, boosted a laptop and a Wacom for me. Got me bootlegs of all the major software programs. That’s what I was best at. Graphics and manips.”

“You should start creating again if it makes you happy. It doesn’t have to be your job or get sold for you to enjoy it. The whole point is self-expression.”

“Yeah, maybe I will. I’ve become a raging bore when I really think about it.”

“I don’t think you could ever be boring.”

Ian’s blood rushed to his brain, making him a little dizzy. Sometimes a tiny compliment from the right person sounded so much more profound and meaningful than the simple words were intended.

Still, he brushed it off. “That’s because you barely know me. I used to be interesting, now I’m just a reformed bad boy cliche.”

Mickey rubbed his belly, distracting Ian’s attention from his face. “You think I’m not? I mean, yeah, I get to make money off the art thing, but it’s not like I became world-famous or some shit. I used to be a teenage gangster, for fuck’s sake.”

Ian snorted. “Really?”

“Fuck yeah, man. Ran guns, sold drugs, pimped whores, you name it.”

“Jesus. South Side through and through, huh?”

“Yep. If you think I’m not the biggest fuckin’ anomaly my shit-ass family’s ever seen, you’re dead wrong.”

“Wow. I think I’m gonna need to hear some stories from these teen crime years you speak of.”

Mickey snickered. “Maybe some other time, Red.”

Ian wasn’t sure if he was being shut down or brushed off; if he should stay the night or hit the road. Didn’t know if he should ask Mickey outright or not. Maybe he’d just stay quiet for a while and see if Mickey reached out and touched him; let himself be directed again. Go with the flow.

A few minutes of icy introspection went by before Mickey deliberately pulled the covers up over Ian’s body.

“Stop thinkin’ so hard. Get some sleep. Wake me up when you wanna go again.”

Ian smiled. “If you don’t wake me up first. It can be tough keeping away from all this.”

Mickey swatted his chest. “I can kick you out, instead, if you’re gonna be cocky.”

“Pretty sure you like it when I get cocky.” He wiggled his eyebrows like a dumbass. “Some of those noises you made—”

“Red! You’re this fucking close!”

Ian chortled and pulled Mickey closer, twisting him around so he could be properly spooned. And if in the middle of the night, his mammoth erection woke them both up for a hazy, slow fuck, it was just a bonus.

  


The harsh light of day dawned through the window shades, but Ian refused to allow that strange first morning after iffiness set in. Seeing that Mickey was still firmly asleep, he took it upon himself to traipse over to the kitchen and check the fridge. Luckily, Mickey had it decently stocked, so he scrambled some eggs, tossed some cheese and salsa in, sprinkled salt and pepper over it, and used some slightly hardened flour tortillas to make breakfast tacos. He filled up a single plate and brought it over to the bed.

“Wakey, wakey,” he singsonged, dropping back down to the mattress and waving the plate around near Mickey’s nose.

A deep groan erupted before Mickey’s eyes fluttered open, and Ian sat the plate in his own lap, grabbing a taco and taking a large bite.

“Breakfast,” he explained.

“You cooked my food?” croaked Mickey, yawning widely.

“Uh huh. Whatever your plans for the day, you need to refuel after such a long workout.”

“You always this corny?”

“Maybe.”

“The fuck time is it?”

“Almost 9.”

“Ugh. Of course you’re a morning person.”

“Just be happy that I had the foresight to switch to a mid shift, otherwise I woulda had to be outta here by 6.”

Mickey shimmied his way into a sitting position and made grabby hands for a taco, so Ian offered the plate toward him, a silly thrill running through him when Mickey took a bite.

“You know, you didn’t have to bring me breakfast in bed, Pollyanna,” he said around his mouthful. “You’re firmly in my good graces. Don’t need bribes.”

“It’s not a bribe, Mick. I was hungry and it would’ve been rude to cook your food without giving you some.”

“Such a boy scout.”

“I think the words you’re looking for are ‘thank you.’”

Mickey rolled his eyes and grabbed a second taco. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Mickey.”

They finished eating in relative silence, and when Mickey got back from a trip to the bathroom, Ian pulled him back into bed so that he was on top.

“I think I have time for another round before I have to go home and get ready for work.”

Mickey pursed his lips and acted like he was considering the offer. “Lemme think about it.”

Ian smacked him on the ass. “Stop pretending like you don’t want more. When can I see you again?”

“Christ, gingerbread. You’re just gonna worm your way into my life no matter what I have to say about it, aren’t you?”

“Probly, yeah.”

“Then I suppose we’re gonna need to exchange phone numbers or some shit.”

Ian shook his head. “Obviously, but that’s still not good enough. I need a date.”

“I don’t date.”

“Our first date was last night. When’s the second one?”

“I don’t—”

“Thursday night? I’m off Friday.”

“Maybe I’m booked solid.”

“Are you?”

“No.”

“Thursday it is then.”

Mickey patted his cheek. “Where the hell did you come from?”

“Your wildest art school fantasies.”

“I shouldn’t have given you that opening. Stupid of me to—”

Ian cut him off with a rousing kiss, waiting until Mickey was good and worked up before pulling away.

“Shut up and assume the position.”

“Skatin’ on thin ice here—”

“Position!”

  


  



End file.
